


The Crisis

by JetBlackGoldfish



Series: The Crisis [1]
Category: Political RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetBlackGoldfish/pseuds/JetBlackGoldfish
Summary: Bashar has to attend an Arab Summit to discuss and solve a humanitarian crisis. However, he ends up suffering a crisis of his own.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted by myself on DeviantArt throughout 2017. This work was inspired by a tweet and a subsequent conversation about it.

There was a humanitarian crisis, and it was affecting a lot of normal, everyday people, especially children. This year's Arab Summit was going to be focused primarily on this tragic, deadly crisis.

  
Syrian President Bashar al-Assad had been one of the more vocal world figures regarding this crisis, and Syria had been one of the main countries giving aid.

  
This crisis had saddened him deeply, and his wife Asma had been inconsolable most nights - she, too, had been very vocal about it. She had so wanted to attend this summit, but unfortunately, all three of the young Assad children had caught chickenpox.

  
'You're just going to have to go on your own, habibi,' Asma told Bashar that sunny morning.

  
'I know it's important, I know those poor people need help, but ... erm ... can't you go instead?'

  
'On my own? With three sick children? Going to a conference hall filled with fat, ugly, women-hating Wahhabis?'

  
Bashar chuckled at that last part, but stopped when he saw Asma's face. 'OK ... I'll go and try to sort out this crisis... but talking to those Saudis and Qataris is like talking to a brick wall.'

  
'Bashar, you've been wonderful these last few weeks... you can do this.'

  
'You've been wonderful too. I love you.'

  
'I love you too.' She hugged him and he hugged back; she then kissed him.

  
Walking into the living room, he saw his three little children sat on the sofa, eating ice lollies, watching cartoons and being very itchy. He couldn't leave without saying bye to them too.

  
'How are we feeling?' he asked them.

  
'Itchy,' Hafez complained.

  
'I know, little man, but you've got to try and not scratch them,' Bashar said, remembering when he had chickenpox and completely ignored his parents' advice to _not_ scratch them. 'Look, kids, I've got to go and try and help some other kids... kids who don't even have food.' He tousled the hair of all the kids.

  
'No, Baba!' Zein yelled. 'Now you'll get it too!'

  
'No I won't, sweetie... I've already had it. Once you've had it you can't get it again. Don't worry about me, OK? Be good to your mother and when she tells you it's bathtime, she means it's bathtime, and that goes for all of you. I should be back tonight. See you kids, I love you all!'

  
'Will we ever get better?' Karim asked.

  
'Of course you will,' Bashar replied, and with that he left, and felt a bit bad about it.

 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashar arrives at the conference, and meets the other Arab leaders.

It was now early afternoon and Bashar was standing in the foyer of a conference hall in a major Arabian city, now wearing the little golden Arab League badge on his lapel, like every suited person did at these meetings.

  
Right now he was just standing there, watching two obese men stuffing their faces at the buffet - sure, they needed food too, but what about those poor starving children affected by the crisis?

  
Ali Abdullah Saleh, the Yemeni president, approached Bashar. He was a short man with very short grey hair and a black moustache.

  
'Bashar,' Ali said, 'on your own?'

  
'Yeah.'

  
'How's the family?'

  
'Asma's fine - she was meant to be here with me, but the kids aren't very well.'

  
'Oh, sorry, what's wrong with them?'

  
'Chickenpox.'

  
'I see ... I hope they get better soon.'

  
'Thank you, Ali, I'll tell them that.'

  
Tunisian President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak and Algerian President Abdelaziz Bouteflika walked over. Bashar, Ali, Zine, Hosni and Abdelaziz all shook each other's hands and engaged in light conversation, in which laughs were had - most of the jokes were about Bouteflika's height, as he was only five foot two, and about his combover. He didn't seem to mind, and was even making jokes about himself.

  
All suddenly went dark for Bouteflika and he couldn't see a thing - someone had covered his eyes with their hand and said, in a very familiar, deep yet nasal voice, 'Hello Tiny.'

  
'Hello Muammar!' Bouteflika said cheerfully. He could hear the others laughing. 'Now it's a party!'

  
'Abdelaziz, this is a very serious meeting about a very serious issue,' Muammar said, removing his hand. 'But I suppose we all need a laugh in these times.'

  
'You are right,' Abdelaziz said, looking up at Muammar - a tall, leonine man, with long, black, curly hair, wearing cinnamon brown robes with a little black kufi hat and black sunglasses. Abdelaziz then looked at Bashar, who was even taller, with short, black hair and big, blue, almond eyes. 'Laughs right now are in _short_ supply.'

  
Everyone laughed, and when they'd stopped, Zine, Hosni and Abdelaziz walked over to the buffet table. Two other people walked over and stood beside Muammar.

 

'Hello again, young Bashar,' Muammar said.

  
'Hello, Muammar.' They hugged, with Muammar squeezing Bashar.

  
'Muammar ... OK, Muam...'

  
'Sorry.'

  
'That's OK.'

  
'Anyway, Bashar ... this is my cousin, Ahmed.'

  
Ahmed said 'Hello there' and shook Bashar's hand. His hair was even curlier than Muammar's and, Bashar thought, their voices sounded very similar.

  
'And,' Muammar told Bashar, 'this is my daughter, Aisha.'

  
'Hello, Bashar,' Aisha said to him, shaking his hand gently. She had long, dyed blonde hair, mostly hidden by a dark blue hijab, and dark, piercing eyes. 'There's still an hour before the conference begins... how about we get a drink?'

  
'Sure, OK,' Bashar said, hoping it would settle his nerves.

 


	3. Part Three

Muammar, Ahmed, Bashar and Aisha were sat outside a small cafe near the conference hall, all with a small cup of mint tea.

  
'All on your own, Bashar?' Muammar asked, taking his sunglasses off.

  
'Yeah ... Asma was meant to come along, but the kids aren't well.'

  
'Oh no,' Aisha said sympathetically. 'What's wrong with them?'

  
'They've all got chickenpox.'

  
'Oh the poor things. I hope they feel better soon.'

  
'Tell them I hope they'll get better too,' Muammar said.

  
'And me,' said Ahmed.

  
'Thank you everyone,' Bashar said to them. 'Asma really wanted to come along today, this whole crisis has upset her so much.'

  
'Speaking of kids...' Aisha said, her eyes aglow. She grabbed her father's hand. 'Baba...' she said quietly. 'There's something I've got to tell you...'

  
She put her other hand on her stomach.

  
'You're pregnant?' Muammar asked in a hushed tone.

  
Aisha nodded.

Muammar put one arm around his daughter and, for a moment, he pulled her closer to him. When he let go, he wiped his eyes.

  
'Have your told your mother?' he asked.

  
'Yes, I told her last week. I told the boys too,' she said, referring to her brothers. 'I would've told you sooner, it's just...'

  
'I know, darling ... I've been focused on this crisis, and I've had to go far out into the desert to get away from it all... I'm sorry.' Muammar wiped his eyes again. Trying not to sound too choked up, he said 'Congratulations.'

  
Bashar and Ahmed waited for Muammar to regain his composure. 'Don't worry, Bashar, he's like this more than you'd think. Mama tells us he cried whenever she announced she was pregnant, and even more so when we were born.'

  
'What about-'

  
'Yes, he told Mama all about Fatiha and our Mohammed... he said he was the same then too.'

  
'I can believe it,' Bashar said, a bit of a laugh in his voice, as he remembered _himself_ crying uncontrollably over the births of his own children ... if he'd been _that_ emotional then, he imagined Muammar would've been even more so, over even more births.

  
Muammar had regained his composure at last. 'Sorry about that, everyone.'

  
'No, no, it's OK,' Bashar and Ahmed said at the same time.

  
'Do you need anything, Aisha?' Muammar asked his daughter.

  
'No thank you, Baba,' was Aisha's reply. She looked at Bashar. 'Bashar, are you OK? You look really pale!'

  
'Do I?'

  
'He'll be fine,' was Muammar's response, 'he always gets like this!'

  
_Wow, thanks Muammar_ , Bashar thought.

  
'Nervous?' Muammar asked.

  
'A bit,' Bashar replied.

  
_A bit? Bashar, you look like you're going to faint or throw up._

  
'Don't worry, young Bashar... you can do this.'

  
Ahmed looked at his watch. 'We've got to be there in twenty minutes, we'd better leave now.'

  
The four left a generous tip and left.

 


	4. Part Four

The huge conference hall was divided by country.

  
The Libya plaque read 'Libyan Arab Jamahiriya' and on the main desk was a tiny little green flag, surrounded by gold braid. Muammar sat here, planning to put his shades back on whenever someone said something he disagreed with. Aisha was sat next to him, and Ahmed behind them.

  
The Syria plaque read 'Syrian Arab Republic' and on the main desk was a tiny, stripey flag - the top was red, the middle was white and the bottom was black - and in the middle of the white stripe there were two green, five-pointed stars. This flag was surrounded by silver braid.

  
Bashar was all alone at the Syria desk. Normally at these summits he'd have a member of his government or his wife with him - but not today. He even felt alone in this vast hall, and he felt nauseous too. One of his worst fears was publicly embarrassing himself, especially around other dignitaries, and he hoped he wasn't going to vomit everywhere.

  
_Come on, you always think something like this is going to happen, but it's never happened..._

_... **yet**._

  
A round man in traditional Arab clothes started the conference, talking about the crisis, and even sounding convincing, until he started complaining about how women could have started this crisis by driving or the clothes they wore.

  
_Stupid extremist types_ , Bashar thought, looking around. He saw that Muammar had his shades on.

  
_Ha, so it's like he can't see them! Good one, Uncle Muammar!_

  
Several other people did their speeches, and Bashar listened intently to all of them. It seemed everyone in this hall was going to speak - _hmm, maybe even the janitors at this rate._

  
Now, it was his turn. Everyone's eyes were on him, this lanky guy, sat there all on his own, sweating a little.

  
_Come on, Bashar, you can do this... this is for those people who need help._

  
He said what he felt had to be said, in his soft Syrian voice. Behind her, Aisha could hear a monarch and another dignitary mocking his voice - she narrowed her eyes and stared at them with those piercing eyes she had inherited from her father. That didn't stop them, so she'd tapped her father's shoulder and whispered to him what they were doing. Muammar turned around and narrowed his eyes at them - that shut them up.

  
It was a good thing Bashar didn't hear any of this, because he was in his element right now. At one point his voice cracked, but he managed to control himself quickly.

  
When he was done, he got a huge round of applause. _I hope they're not just doing it to be polite_ , he thought, but it sounded like the majority of these dignitaries really meant it. _At least I don't have to talk anymore_.

  
Part of him wanted to go home, but he knew how important this was. Now, on the other side of the hall, it was Muammar's turn.

  
_This is going to be a good one..._

  
_... Oh, kinda have to pee, but it's nothing, I can easily hold it._

  
Muammar's somewhat nasal voice now filled the hall. There were accusations against the Western world, sarcastic comments, references to all sorts of historical events and verbatim Quranic verses - this was Muammar al-Gaddafi at his finest.

  
Bashar had greatly enjoyed this speech, and now it was Ahmed's turn. Ahmed made good points too, and Bashar listened intently to him, as he did to everyone, but about halfway through Ahmed's speech, the discomfort came back, a little stronger than before. After Ahmed's speech, Aisha started speaking.

  
_Yes Aisha, that's a great point actually... yes, and that too... I know all this is important but ugh... come on, Bashar, you can't be the only person in this whole room feeling like this..._

  
There were still a lot more speeches to be made, and an interval was ages away... they weren't confined to the hall until then, they could leave if they wanted, but Bashar felt like he had to stay here, despite his current situation.

  
_Come on, you can do this... before you know it there'll be a break... I know you can do this ... why did you have to remind me of THAT..._

 


	5. Part Five

After quite some time, Bashar found himself wondering whether he was coming across as a leader who was actively trying to stop a crisis, or was indeed just coming across as an awkward skinny guy who had to use the bathroom pretty bad... however, he thought he was hiding it well.

  
The truth was that he was hiding it well, however, no-one had really been paying any attention to him since his speech ended... except for the one monarch and dignitary on the other side of the room.

  
These two, sat behind the Gaddafis, were giggling and snorting. Aisha was growing increasingly sick and tired of these two, so she'd turned around and said:

  
'You two sound like swines, what is the matter with you?'

  
'It's that Bashar al-Assad,' the dignitary chuckled.

  
'What about him?'

  
'He's just sitting there... looking all ... er ... sweaty.'

  
'He's always like that,' Muammar said while writing something. 'He'll be fine.'

  
'He looks uncomfortable.'

  
'Yes, that's Bashar.' Muammar still didn't look at the two men behind him. 'He gets like this at these things... it shows that he's human, getting all nervous.'

  
'I'm not nervous.'

  
'Not everyone's like you... even _I_ used to get nervous when I first started doing all this.' 

  
'Wait,' the dignitary said, looking at Bashar, 'is he crying?'

  
'No,' Muammar sighed, growing exasperated. 'He's just sweating nervously, and it is rather warm in here.'

  
'Wait, wait,' the monarch chortled. 'I think I've got it! He's gotta pee! This is hilarious.'

  
'What if it was you?' Aisha asked in a quiet, exasperated tone.

  
'Oh, go and bleed somewhere else,' the monarch said.

  
Aisha did not respond to this misogynistic comment, but she was growing increasingly angry. 'Apologise to her!' Muammar ordered.

  
'Not yet, not yet,' the two men giggled. The monarch asked the dignitary, 'Wanna bet?'

  
'OK.'

  
'OK ... we'll bet on Assad. You go first.'

  
The dignitary thought about it. 'All right ... I'll bet five dinars that he ends up crying at some point.'

  
'I'll bet five dinars that he ends up pissing himself.'

  
'And I'll bet ten dinars that he'll cry after that.'

  
The Gaddafis had had enough. Muammar, Ahmed and Aisha turned around and said, almost in unison, 'Gambling is haram!'

  
Now the monarchs looked uncomfortable as they slowly put their money away.

  
'Ahmed?' Muammar asked.

  
'Yes, Muammar?'

  
'Go and check on Bashar, please.'

  
'He's a grown man, Mua-'

  
'I know, cousin, but please just do this for me. He's almost like another son to me and ... I don't want anything to happen to him.'

  
Ahmed sighed. 'OK.' 

 


	6. Part Six

Ahmed Gaddaf al-Dam walked over to Bashar, and put a hand on his shoulder.

  
'Is everything all right?'

  
'Yeah...'

  
'Are you sure?' Ahmed couldn't help but notice that Bashar had a somewhat pained expression on his face.

  
'Muammar sent you, didn't he?'

  
'Why yes, yes he did.'

  
Bashar sighed and said, very quietly, in Ahmed's ear, 'Uh... actually ... I have to pee, pretty badly.' He then blushed furiously.

  
'Oh. Look, Bashar, sometimes you really do have to put yourself first before other people. Right now it's just a load of royals with nothing to say, so just go already.'

  
'OK. Thanks, Ahmed.' Bashar stood up and left the room.

 


	7. Part Seven

Walking through the double doors and into the foyer, Bashar felt a little better, but only because he was now alone in the empty foyer.

  
Yes! No-one around, he thought. The urge had grown more intense and Bashar, thankful that he was alone, grabbed himself for a second.

  
He walked across the room to the bathroom and, just a few paces away from the door, grabbed himself again for a few seconds.

_There's probably security cameras, and they can probably see me ... ... oh no._

  
Finally, he made it into the bathroom. He was all alone in here, too, and was so relieved that he said, to the urinal, 'Here you go, you thirsty boy.'

  
Straight afterwards he realised, to his horror, that the tiny little microphone on his lapel was still on, meaning the whole hall, and just about every important person in the Arab world had heard this.

  
In the hall, all the sheikhs were laughing.

  
At first, Bashar looked on the bright side - _Cheer up, Bashar, it could've been a lot, lot worse... if you'd stayed in there and waited until the break you might've peed yourself by now..._

  
He muttered to himself 'How am I going to get out of this?' Slowly, things began to pile up in his mind.

  
_I've embarrassed myself in front of the whole world, my father would probably be ashamed of me... I can't even properly comfort my wife and not only that I'm a terrible father too..._

  
Eventually, it all got too much. He gave a tearful sigh, turned off the microphone and locked himself in a cubicle.

  
_Come on now, you're being stupid_ , he thought, as he wiped his eyes, but it didn't stop the tears. He just sat there and let his eyes fill up until he couldn't see; he blinked and tears slowly trickled down his face.

  
After several minutes, someone knocked on the cubicle door. 'Bashar?'

  
'Muammar?'

  
'No, it's Ahmed again.'

  
'Oh, sorry, it's just you both sound the same to me.'

  
'It's OK... but you sound upset. What's wrong?'

  
'Ahmed, I've made a fool of myself and the Arab world.'

  
'Bashar, you made that one little faux pas, is that why you're so upset?'

  
'Uh ... partly.'

  
At that moment, Muammar entered the bathroom, and even did that with a flourish. 'What's the matter with him, Ahmed?'

  
'I'm not sure,' was Ahmed's reply. 'He said it was partly the microphone thing.'

  
'Bashar,' Muammar said, knocking repeatedly on the door, 'come out of there!'

  
Bashar did so, red-eyed and with a couple of tears still on his face.

  
'What's wrong, young Bashar?'

  
'I've made a fool of myself and the Arab world.'

  
'Oh Bashar...' Muammar sighed, gently wiping the tears off Bashar's face with his finger. 'No you haven't.'

  
'But Muammar, I...'

  
'Bashar, listen to me, please. Today there's a lot of fools here, talking a lot of small-minded, ignorant nonsense. You are not one of them. Look, we all say silly things when we're alone. I know it's embarrassing...'

  
'...but it could've been worse,' Ahmed interjected. 'If you'd stayed in there you might've wet yourself by now.'

  
'Yeah,' Bashar said quietly. He didn't exactly feel better, but he looked down at the floor, then up at the tile ceiling, mouthing something. He decided to smile and pretend he felt better. 'If I did I'd have gone into hiding and no-one would ever see me again.'

  
'Don't say things like that,' Muammar said. 'It's debate time, young Bashar, and believe me, we need you. Just go back in there and act like nothing happened.'

  
'OK, I'll do it.' Bashar switched the tiny microphone back on and walked out of the bathroom.

  
'I hope he'll be OK,' Ahmed said, sounding a little worried. 'I'd never seen him upset before.'

  
'I've seen him in a worse state,' was Muammar's reply, 'but you must never mention this to him or anyone else. Now come on, we've got some debating to do.'

 


	8. Part Eight

Bashar walked back into the hall as if nothing had happened. The first thing he noticed were the sheikhs giggling, but he just sat back down and ignored them.

  
At the end of the day, no plan was reached to stop the crisis, which meant some of them had to meet again a week later. Bashar wasn't exactly looking forward to this, because it meant he would have to meet some of the monarchs.

  
It was dusk when he finally arrived back home. He walked into the living room to find the three little children asleep on the sofa. Asma walked over and quietly said 'Hello' and gently kissed him. 'How did it go? I know there's no real plan yet.'

  
'I'll tell you about it later... do you want me to take the kids to bed?'

  
'Bashar, you've just come in...'

  
'I know, but I didn't say goodnight to them, so it's the least I can do.'

  
'All right... I'll take Zein, and you take the boys.'

  
He picked up Karim as gently as he could, carried him upstairs and tucked him into bed. He did the same with Hafez, but the moment he tucked him into bed and said goodnight, Hafez woke up.

  
'Baba?'

  
'Oh hello there ... I thought you were asleep.'

  
'I was asleep.'

  
'Could you maybe try and go back to sleep?'

  
'Why?'

  
'Because you need your sleep so you can be a big boy... and it'll make you feel better,' he added as he noticed the little boy scratching.

  
'How was the meeting?' Hafez asked.

  
_Well my dear son, I embarrassed myself in front of the whole world._

  
'It was OK, but we've still got a lot to do. Oh, Saleh and Gaddafi hope you all get better soon.'

  
Hafez's brown eyes lit up at that. 'Baba?'

  
'Yes?'

  
'I love you.'

  
'Aww, love you too, little man.' Bashar tickled little Hafez on the chest, then said 'Now try and go to sleep... if your mama knows you're awake... goodnight, Hafez.'

  
'Say goodnight to Spongebob!' Hafez said, holding up a wonky-eyed Spongebob plush toy.

  
'Goodnight Spongebob,' Bashar said to the plushie, shaking one of the toy's arms. He noticed a bit of a tear in it, and the white stuffing was poking out, but he said nothing as he switched off the light, shut the door and walked out. One of Asma's relatives in England had sent the wonky-eyed Spongebob, and although he'd never said it, he thought there was something sinister about it.

  
He went back downstairs and sat on the sofa. A short time later, Asma sat next to him and asked him 'Have you eaten anything?'

  
'No.'

  
'Why?'

  
'I just didn't get around to it.'

  
Asma sighed - she knew this was going to happen. She went over to the fridge and took out a small foil package, walked back over to her husband and gave it to him. He opened it - there were some cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles.

  
'Thanks,' he said with a small smile, and he bit into one.

  
'So nothing came out of today?'

  
'No ... so I have to meet the Gulf lot next week.'

  
'Oh no...'

  
'Yeah ... I'm already ... what do you say in England ... uh ... bricking it.'

  
'Don't say that ... anyway, how was everything else?'

 


End file.
